carry me home in good health
by devirnis
Summary: Oneshot follow-up to Fallout. "It's a small step but it feels like jumping off a frigging cliff."


**[Author's Note]** Because apparently I can't just leave well enough alone.

This is a one-chapter conclusion to Fallout, set a couple months after the end of that fic. The title comes from Who Do You Love by (say it with me now) Marianas Trench.

* * *

 **carry me home in good health**

Baird breaks his leg while fixing a tank. It's still not the stupidest thing he's ever done.

He's done dumb shit like this before—getting into dangerous positions while working on a vehicle and never thinking twice about it. But that was back in his twenties when his body hadn't been subjected to sixteen years of hell and physical torture. He's getting old, and even he doesn't want to admit it, his back is kind enough to remind him.

In hindsight, a rusty ladder propped up against the side of the Centaur with nothing to steady it really isn't the greatest idea he's ever had. But he's just replacing a cracked panel on the top of the tank. Nothing to it. Unfortunately, when he twists his torso to pry the last corner up, a muscle in his back spasms painfully. He isn't prepared for it, can't control the way one of his legs locks up while the other jerks to the side, tipping him off balance. His arms flail futilely while the ladder scrapes along the side of the tank as it falls.

He must black out for a second because he doesn't remember hitting the ground. Suddenly he's just flat on his back, the ladder trapped awkwardly between his legs, his face flushed bright red with embarrassment. At least nobody is around to see it. When he goes to push himself up onto his elbows, a piercing bolt of pain shoots up from his right leg. He sucks in a sharp breath and looks down at it, sees the awkward angle, and knows he's screwed.

"Shit," he says, and lets his head fall back onto the concrete floor.

He stays like that for about a minute, contemplating his own stupidity, before he reaches for his tac-com.

* * *

 _I'm not gonna die. I'm not gonna faint. I'm fine. I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine._

Sam sits on her bed, her back pressed up against the headboard, breathing in the slow, deliberate rhythm that Mathieu taught her. Still, her heart hammers away in her chest, pounds in her ears; she can feel droplets of sweat beginning to slide down her forehead as her hands twist in the bedsheets beside her.

It's not the first panic attack she's had on her own, but that doesn't make it suck any less.

Picture someone you trust, someone who cares about you, and imagine that person is here with you—that's what Mathieu said the first time she had an attack during one of their sessions. And breathe slowly. Yeah, easier said than done. Even though she's managed to bring her anxiety attacks down from half an hour to just over ten minutes, she's still annoyed—frustrated, ashamed—that she can't stop them altogether.

 _It's not my fault,_ she tells herself. _It's not something I can control._

But there's a difference between knowing that logically and truly believing it.

So she takes Mathieu's advice and imagines that Baird his sitting on her right. Her eyes are squeezed shut tight; it could be true. He'd panic a bit himself to start with—still terrified that he'd make it worse somehow—before he'd start to run his mouth, worried that he was being insensitive, but his words would envelope her, make her feel better. If she nudged him, he'd wrap an arm around her shoulders and hold her close against his warm, safe, solid body.

After a few more minutes, her heartbeat finally slows down to a mostly regular pace. She wipes an arm across her forehead and lets out a long breath. "Bloody hell."

She's just about to get off the bed when her tac-com crackles with static in her ear.

" _Sam?"_

It's Baird. "What's up?" she asks.

There's a sigh on the other end of the connection. _"I'm in the infirmary and I need someone to come pick me up."_

The only thing that stops her stomach from lurching painfully is the fact that she's talking to him. He can't be hurt that badly if he's conscious and sounds sheepish. "Jeez, what did you do?"

" _Broke my leg fixing a Centaur."_

She can't help the laughter that erupts out of her; she can almost picture his sullen expression. "That's too good. Wait until I tell Cole."

" _Great. You can both mock me together. Are you coming or not?"_

"Yeah, I'm on my way, you wally."

She hears the beginning of his groan as she cuts the connection. It's not until she closes the door to her house that she realises what Baird's predicament means for her.

 _He won't be able to come with me tomorrow._

Her stomach churns queasily; it was the thought of what she has to do tomorrow that set off the panic attack in the first place.

Ever since she returned to Anvegad, she's been recuperating—physically and mentally. It wasn't until last week that Mathieu finally gave her the go-ahead for active duty. True, she's been bored out of her mind while she was _resting_ ; nothing to do other than physical rehab and her weekly (then bi-weekly, then monthly) sessions with Mathieu. It had taken time, longer than she wanted it to, to get back on her feet. She had to build up her muscle mass, her endurance, her stamina; she had to stop having bouts of anxiety whenever she saw a white coat.

And now she's cleared for combat. It took Hoffman a week before he finally scheduled her on a patrol. _Tomorrow_. The squad consists of Cole, Dizzy, Bernie, Baird and herself. Except Baird can't come with her now.

"Fuck," she mutters, and starts towards the base.

* * *

Baird knows he's fucked up—big time. Again, not exactly _new_ for him, but this could quite possibly be one of the biggest fuck ups of his career. Bigger than nearly blowing himself up along with that bridge near Ephyra. Bigger than disobeying a direct order and launching the lightmass missile from Onyx Point. Yeah, that big. That bad.

It isn't a bad break, all things considered. He's lucky he didn't break his back, as Hayman keeps helpfully reminding him. But it's bad enough that he needs a cast and crutches. No way he'll be able to keep pace with his fellow uninjured Gears through the forests surrounding the garrison.

 _Hoffman will never clear me for that patrol tomorrow._ That Baird is even entertaining the idea of limping through the undergrowth indicates just how desperate he is. _I can't let her go out there alone._

Not after what happened last time. It was a beach on a secret island, but that didn't keep Sam safe. She'd been abducted, tortured for information—in lieu of Baird. He's been dreading the day she's cleared for active duty again; guilt-fueled nightmares have been plaguing his sleep for the past week. The thought of the upcoming patrol had been made more bearable by the fact that Hoffman had scheduled Baird to go out on the same squad.

After his accident, he'll be benched for weeks.

It's an easy mission, a walk in the park. Just a quick jaunt through the trees to check on things. The whole excursion won't last more than five hours.

But that's five hours too long. Five hours that Baird will have to stay behind, worrying every second that something horrible will have happened to Sam, and he once again wasn't there to stop it.

"There you are, you dorb."

He snaps his head up at Sam's voice. She's leaning against the doorframe, trying her best to look casual; Baird can see right through her act. For all her attempts at naturalness, it's instantly apparent that she's had another panic attack. Her smirk is almost shaky, her hands are clenched into fists, and he can see the traces of beads of sweat on her hairline. It's also obvious that she doesn't want him to acknowledge this, so he has to play along.

"What did you call me?" he asks.

Shaking her head slowly, she walks towards his cot. "I'd have thought you'd have picked up more Kashkuri slang by now, darling."

"Your Kashkuri slang makes no sense," he grumbles just for the sake of being argumentative.

She stops next to his bed. "So. How'd this happen?"

"I, uh—" Embarrassment momentarily takes over, and he wonders if she's doing this on purpose. Trying to distract him. That's his job. "I fell off a ladder."

The giggle that bubbles up out of her is well worth his humiliation. And, really, at the end of the day a broken leg is definitely preferable to a broken back. The next time he's working on a Centaur, he'll remember this feeling and never take another reckless, needless risk again.

"Come on, then," Sam says when she regains her composure. "Let's get you home."

* * *

They're both thinking about it but not saying a thing, and the charade is beginning to exhaust Sam.

As she pushes Baird's wheelchair towards their house, she notices that it's getting harder for him to hide those aborted twitchy movements he makes whenever he's nervous. She knows what he wants to ask her—what he'll eventually blurt out because he can't help himself—and she dreads it, feels it weighing her down already. The choice she'll have to make.

 _Don't go_ , he'll implore her. _Don't go without me. Wait until I can come with you._

Even though she knows it's coming, it will take all of her strength to refuse him.

Because it would be _so easy_ to give in. Hoffman would understand; he wouldn't bat an eye if she told the colonel she wasn't ready—despite what Mathieu has said. No one would begrudge her for having to take her place on patrol.

But if she says no once—just once, she'll tell herself—it will be too easy to say no again. To stay inside her shell. To let _them_ win. A year ago she wouldn't have batted an eyelid about being scheduled for a patrol without Baird, but now it's the most terrifying thing in the world.

 _But I can do it_.

She knows she can do it. There's a fire deep down inside of her, one that the Samson and his cohorts hadn't managed to extinguish even with their weeks of torture. She _can_ do it. And—maybe it's better that Baird can't come with her. Now she can prove to herself that she's strong enough on her own.

When they reach the front porch, Baird has to get out of his wheelchair and use the crutches that have been resting in his lap. As he hops up the few wooden stairs, Sam watches him. She can see the tension in the hunch of his shoulders, the set of his jaw.

Once they're inside, she thinks the protest will come—but it doesn't. Not right away. Baird glances over his shoulder briefly to make sure she's following and then heads up the stairs to their bedroom. It's late; he's probably tired and in pain, but somehow Sam doubts that's the reason he's making a beeline upstairs. In the last few months, the bedroom has become the place where they have their most difficult conversations. Where he calms her down after night terrors, where he finds her after panic attacks send her running for safety, where they talk about how things have changed since _then_. A sanctuary, of sorts.

So it's where he'll ask her to stay.

She lets him get a few steps ahead of her, taking a moment to steel herself. She has to hold her ground, to refuse to give in to the fear—to give in to him.

 _I can do this. I know I can._

Baird doesn't stop at the top of the staircase, instead continuing into the bedroom and out of her line of sight. Sam climbs the last few steps two at a time, stopping abruptly when she walks through the threshold to their room.

"Sam," Baird begins.

He's standing with his back to the bed, trying to look calm and composed but she can see he's starting to fray at the edges. This surprises her. Here she thought she'd be the one going to pieces, and Baird's apparently way ahead of her.

"About tomorrow—" he continues.

She cuts in, "I know what you're going to say. Please don't."

Shock flickers across his face briefly. Had he been expecting her to give in, to be relieved that he was offering her an out? "You—"

"I'm still going on patrol tomorrow." Perhaps her tone is a bit firmer than it needs to be, but she wants him to know that she's standing her ground on this one. _Please don't argue with me. Not about this._

But he doesn't let go easily. "You could—just, say you're sick or something. You're not feeling up to it. Say anything, shit, I don't know, just—"

"Damon." She's not mad at him—a little disappointed maybe, although it's not hard to see where he's coming from. Still. He has to understand. "I _need_ to do this. I can't spend the rest of my life afraid of what might happen. If I do, they win—and I won't let them win."

His eyes are wide and frantic, pleading. "Sam, _please_. I can't—"

"But _I_ can. Nothing is going to happen, okay?"

"You can't know that."

"True, but I can make a logical hypothesis. How many other groups of crazy scientists trying to resurrect the grubs do you think are running around in Sera? And what are the chances they're lurking in Kashkur?"

"With our luck?" He laughs, but it's a choked, humourless sound.

She runs her hands up him arms, resting them on his shoulders. "It'll be okay."

He opens his mouth to protest more, and she knows that nothing she says will relieve the panic they're both feeling. Nothing she can say, but perhaps she can do something instead. Before he can get even one syllable out, she cups his face and kisses him.

For a moment, he stands still as a statue against her, probably torn between anxiety and arousal. There's no telling how long he could stay like that, so she digs her fingers into his hair and draws a moan from deep in his throat. Then his hands are on her shoulders and he pushes her back gently.

"Sam," he begins, and she brings a finger up to his lips.

"No more talking." She kisses him again, slow and gentle, and then she gets to work.

Mindful of his leg, she gives him a light shove that he goes with willingly and he sits down on the bed, letting his crutches clatter to the floor. She makes sure to lock eyes with him before pulling her shirt off and sliding her jeans and underwear down her legs. When she looks up, his shirt is gone too and he's struggling to get his pant leg over his cast. She drops to her knees to help him, careful not to jostle him too much. After he's naked, she presses an open mouthed kiss to his abdomen, feels him flex under her in anticipation. She could take him right now in her mouth, but she has other plans. Then his fingers brush against her back, undoing the clasp of her bra, and she can't help the shiver that runs through her entire body as her bra straps fall limp on her shoulders.

She pulls back and slides her hands up his chest, pushes him slightly. When he lies on his back, she climbs on top of him. He's half-hard already and it makes her _ache_.

 _I can._

She wraps a hand around him and he exhales heavily through his nose. As she begins to slowly rub the head of his cock, her other hand slips between her legs. The sight of him on his back with pupils blown is enough to have her wet already, and she has to bite down on her lip to stop herself from moaning when her fingers skate over her clit. She can feel his pulse against her fingers, feel her own heartbeat between her thighs, and it doesn't take long before she's ready.

When she sinks down onto him, he squeezes his eyes shut and fists the sheets for a few moments before he brings his hands up to her hips, fingers digging into her skin. She holds her breath for a few seconds as she feels his length fill her to the brim, the sensation tight and hot and familiar. After a few awkward false starts (that would have them both snickering under normal circumstances), they finally get in synch with one another and find a sweet rhythm.

No talking, no jokes. Just the sound of skin on skin and harsh, panting breaths. She can feel each of his thrusts shuddering up through her bones, making her gasp and groan when he shifts the angle of his hips ever so slightly. Even somewhat immobilised, he still feels amazing, still knows what angle will eventually send her into a long, shivery orgasm.

She tries to draw it out for him, rocking just shy of too slow and keeping her hands planted firmly on either side of him. No temptation to roam—to stroke, to pinch, to tease. But try as she might, he seems determined to race towards the finish, his expression growing tighter by the minute until—

" _Sam_ ," he says hoarsely, his voice cracked and broken. It's a plea, a stab of arousal, and if she wasn't already on the edge she's certainly there now.

She tightens around him and he swears as he comes apart underneath her, twitching deep inside. And she's right there with him, bent forward and pressing her forehead to his, huffing out her own climax.

When he stops rolling her hips against hers, she pulls back and looks at him. He's staring too, still caught up in the aftermath, a pleased, tired smile on his lips. She loves him so much that sometimes it hurts.

"You really need to stop using sex as a distraction technique," Baird says, though he doesn't sound too upset.

"I'll stop doing it when it stops working," she counters, grinning. "Stay there, I need the toilet."

He pulls a face as she separates them. "Where else am I going to go like this?"

Sam pads off to the bathroom and returns a few minutes later with a glass of water and two of the painkillers that Hayman prescribed Baird. The label warns that the pills will cause drowsiness, although she doesn't mention that to Baird when she hands him the glass of water. He swallows the painkillers without complaint and then pats the space next to him on the mattress.

"You okay?" she asks, when she's under the covers and pressed up against his side.

He wraps an arm around her shoulders. "Me?"

"Your leg," she reminds him.

"I can deal with that pain."

There's no missing the meaning behind his words. She brushes a few kisses along his neck. "It's going to be fine."

He heaves out a defeated sigh. "It better be."

* * *

Baird sleeps dreamlessly. When he wakes up, he's groggy and disoriented, probably thanks to the painkillers. However, he can already feel the empty space Sam has left behind beside him. He jolts awake and upright, terrified he's slept through her departure, and his eyes quickly scan the room.

She's sitting on the end of the bed, tugging on her last boot.

His gut clenches as he gets a good look at her in armour. He hasn't seen her dressed up like that since the night before she was abducted on Azura. She catches him looking at her and he quickly rearranges his face so he doesn't look like he's going out of his mind with worry.

She's not fooled. "I'll be fine, Damon," she says with a gentle smile. "I've got Cole, Diz and Mataki with me."

He nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. Dizzy, who treats Sam like a third daughter; Bernie, who can track, kill, skin and eat anything; and Cole, who's saved Sam once already. If anyone can watch her back— _It should be me._

"Don't make me wait for a kiss this time," he says.

She smirks as she leans towards him. "Getting superstitious, darling?"

"I'll take all the luck I can get."

An expression he can't identify passes over her face. Instead of allowing himself to be distracted, he tilts forward and closes the distance between their mouths. In the space of a few heartbeats, the tension of her lips relaxes and she opens up under him. He slides a hand up to cup her neck, presses his thumb just behind her ear.

When they eventually break apart, Sam stares at him with a mix of sadness and affection. "It'll be okay," she promises.

He can't bring himself to contradict her, so he nods again. "It'll be okay," he repeats.

Maybe if he says it out loud, he'll start to believe it himself.

* * *

After Sam is gone, Baird plants himself on the chair facing the front door and waits. He has a book open on his lap—why, he doesn't know; he has no intention of reading a word. It was probably just to make him look less pathetic when Sam walked out the door, casting one last pleading glance over her shoulder.

He understands why she feels she has to do this alone.

He just wishes their lives had never come to this in the first place.

A few minutes later, the dull ache in his broken leg upgrades to a stabbing pain. He reaches for the pill bottle that Sam left next to him, pops off the cap and dry swallows two capsules. His blinks gradually lengthen, unnoticed by Baird, until he closes his eyes and lets his head fall forward…

* * *

A flurry of quick knocks jerks him awake.

He flails around a bit in the armchair, grasping for his crutches with sleepy hands. Quickly glancing at the clock on the wall, he sees that it's around the time Sam should be done her patrol. The knock at the door. Is that her triumphant return—or news that will prove all his fears right?

His crutches dig into his armpits as he power-hobbles to the door, pinching because he can't be bothered to line up his supports properly. He grabs the doorknob with a white-knuckled grip and wrenches the door open.

"I'm back," Sam says, grinning brilliantly.

He could take her in his arms and slam their mouths together, crutches be damned. He could pull her into the house, push her down on the couch, kiss her until she can't think straight. He could do a million things but what he does is this: he throws his crutches to the side, balances on one leg, and wraps his arms around her, holding her as close as her armour will allow. Dropping his head onto her shoulder, he lets out a slow, ragged breath.

"I'm back," she says again, quieter. Her hands clutch at his shirt.

 _We survived._

It's a small step, in the end, but it feels like leaping off a frigging cliff.

 **end.**


End file.
